


the light that the fire would bring

by slytherco



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (more like Fallout elements included), Alternate Universe - Fallout (Video Games) Setting, Apocalypse, Cold War, Established Relationship, H/D Hurt!Fest 2020, Homophobic Language, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Not a Crossover, Nuclear Warfare, Nuclear Weapons, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Dancing, War, alternative universe - 50s, mortal peril
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26161051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherco/pseuds/slytherco
Summary: After escaping a war-torn wizarding world, Harry and Draco find some relative safety among the Muggles. Very soon, it turns out the reality they’ve found themselves in isn’t that much different.In which Harry learns that the world can end in more than one way.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 32
Kudos: 107
Collections: H/D Hurt!Fest 2020





	the light that the fire would bring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cibeeeee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cibeeeee/gifts).



> Written for H/D Hurt!Fest - prompt 134.
> 
> I wanted to snatch this prompt as soon as I saw it—I’ve been thinking about incorporating some Fallout universe elements into an HP fic for some time now and this prompt made it possible for me. I also borrowed a famous quote from the game which will be immediately noticed by anyone who has played it.
> 
> Dear Cibee, I hope my take on your prompt will be satisfying (as much as it can be, seeing that this is Hurtfest), and that the surprise art compliments the story.
> 
> Huge thanks go to my phenomenal, brilliant beta—she made this fic much more readable and held my hand throughout the writing.  
> Another thank you goes to the lovely mods for hosting this fest, you’re the best!

“It’s been a year, you know.”

Harry turned to look at Draco with a smile. Shifting on the couch, he patted the spot in the vee of his legs. Draco shook his head fondly, white-blond hair falling attractively to the side of his face. Taking two deliberate steps, he lowered himself next to Harry, sighing contentedly as he slid in the crook between his thighs. Even though it was only spring, Draco was warm like a summer field, pale gold and rosy pink in the late sunset light spilling over him in a radiant glow. Harry kissed the back of his head, the tip of his ear, that bluish vein going down his neck and Draco squirmed with a laugh, trapped in the brackets of Harry’s strong arms.

“A year, huh?” Harry murmured, inhaling the sweet honey-patchouli scent Draco always seemed to emanate. The telly was turned down to a low, buzzing background noise and Harry could hear Draco’s calm breathing and the soft, pleased purr he let out at his gentle ministrations. He slipped his hand under Draco’s tee and palmed at the place where his heart beat steadily against his ribcage.

“Mhm,” Draco hummed. “I can’t believe it, it’s like we’ve just moved in,” he said, rucking up his shirt a little higher and placing his own hand over Harry’s, tangling their fingers together.

“Look at us, still in our honeymoon period,” Harry chuckled and Draco smacked him lightly.

“I’m serious,” he huffed and scooted a little closer. “Do you think—” he trailed off, turning his head to look at Harry.

“What, love?”

“Do you think we’re safe?” Draco asked quietly, and Harry held him tighter.

“Don’t listen to that rubbish on the telly,” he said and placed a light kiss to Draco’s brow. “We’re the safest we can possibly be. The Muggles never pay any attention, the wizards have probably assumed we’re dead by now. It’s just you and me,” Harry whispered. “We’ll be alright.”

It was getting dark and the old black and white TV babbled on, basking them in silvery light as joyful, well-dressed Muggles advertised their products in the same grating, high-pitched voices. At times, it drove Harry mad but Draco loved the damn contraption, still mesmerised by the moving pictures and the stories told in the movies. The pictures ended happily most of the time and Harry could see the appeal they carried—his heart always broke a little at the sight of Draco’s face devoid of all worry as he escaped into the world behind the shiny glass. One of these days, he would get a Muggle car, Harry thought, and take Draco to the drive-in cinema they had in the next town over. Soon. When all the rumours died down, when everything would be a little less frantic. He would even learn how to properly drive the bloody thing, just to see his lover happy, to see his reaction to the grand screen, and to kiss him breathless in the backseat under the thick blanket of the night.

For now, what they had managed to build would have to suffice—this calm, subdued life interlaced with lingering worry, only further fueled by every newspaper thrown onto their lawn. The wands they still had were somewhat of a consolation in all the turmoil they found themselves in and all the Muggle tidbits they collected along the way were as good a distraction as any.

_Tea you can taste to the last delicious drop!—Enter the contest—ask your grocer or chemist for full detail tomorrow!—Ring Trafalgar seven-one-one-two right away!_

Draco turned in his embrace, facing the television and laying his head on Harry’s chest. Harry planted a few more kisses to his messy blond fringe.

The thing about war was that it never changed. Magical or not, fought with wands, or bombs, or rifles—it was always the same. It was people riled up against one another, fighting a fight they never wanted, for powers they never met. It was like waiting at a train station with no schedule—something was bound to happen, but it was impossible to know when, and only time would tell if things to come were good or bad.

  


* * *

  


_An atomic bomb is a weapon of mass destruction that derives its power from nuclear reactions—fission and fusion. These reactions are capable of releasing huge amounts of energy from relatively small amounts of matter. A nuclear warhead approximately the size of a conventional bomb is capable of wiping out an entire city. The largest one ever tested was the “Tsar Bomba”, constructed by the USSR with a whopping yield of fifty megatons—it released an amount of energy approximately equal to fifty milion tons of TNT. The blast wave from that bomb had shattered windows at a distance of nine hundred kilometres._

  


* * *

  


The world outside their haven wasn’t a safe place. Life seemed to flow in slow motion, all sunny smiles and happy faces—men tilting hats at their neighbours, children laughing and chasing each other in the streets, whole families packed into their Ford Consuls to go on a trip to the beach. The joyful babble of the telly was as good a tool as any to stifle people’s worries, to make everything seem normal—a pretty postcard of a life in the middle of a world that’s battered, tired, and so, so scared. The picturesque image of a perfect life, just like in the magazines, did not pass by Harry and Draco. After they had left wizarding society, they found a nice little house in a quiet, suburban district. White picket fences, trimmed hedges and smiling housewives with perfect teeth, baking scones for their perfect, white collar husbands and bunches of apple-cheeked children. Just like in that song on one of Draco’s records, the one he brought from their trip to America: _the jokes the snappiest, the folks the happiest, way back home_.

Their neighbours were honest, hard-working people and it was exactly what they liked to be seen as—god-fearing, model citizens, obedient wives that bring their husbands the paper and glasses of scotch, good men with nice cars and impressive houses, people that don’t want anything to disrupt their peaceful existence. There was no war in their neighbourhood, there were book clubs and barbecues, and there were no troublemakers, only church-going conservatives. And there were no scandals—just immaculate families with morals as squeaky clean and unblemished as their well-scrubbed driveways.

It was neither the time nor the place for Harry and Draco to freely live their life together and yet, they functioned among those people like chameleons, under a facade of normalcy, behaving like two upstanding singletons, and strong Privacy Charms. To everyone’s knowledge, they were Muggle veterans—two unassuming bachelors who turned to each other after losing their families in the war they fought shoulder in shoulder. Two friends who supported one another in the aftermath of the atrocities they witnessed, and thanks to that signature small-town temperance, nobody ever asked questions. Not about the war, or how they met, or how they got there. But most importantly, nobody asked what was the exact nature of their relationship.

Harry would sometimes picture their faces if they were ever to find out what went on in that one inconspicuous, powder-blue house near the end of the street. He would imagine those friendly expressions twist into disgust, their smiles curve into sneers, mouths only opening to spew the words he had heard too many times to count.

_Poofter. Pansy. Fruit. Bugger._

He saw those words painted on walls and people’s doors, heard them hissed in bars and pubs, saw young men sitting at bus stops at night, with split lips and bruised faces—Harry knew what people thought about two men touching each other, _loving_ each other. The only thing he felt when thinking about it was anger—blinding fury at those who thought his family was in any way worse than their plastic, advertisement, dollhouse of a life. Fire roared in his belly every time he thought someone could _dare_ to touch Draco, to bring him any harm, to try and call him something he so clearly wasn’t. _Trash. Deviant. Abomination_. Deep down, Harry despised them all, despised their hatred, that fear of living outside some imaginary mould, he would gladly spit on their scones and cars and neatly trimmed lawns.

The only thing that mattered in all of it was Draco. A lighthouse in a storm, his side the safest place Harry could be, his hands cradling Harry’s head, his first kiss in the morning, and the last one before falling asleep. A life with Draco was worth everything they had gone through—a wizarding war, a Muggle one looming over their heads, all the hiding, the pretending, and the terrifying knowledge it was either this, or nothing. They lived happily, yet carefully, not drawing too much attention, just enough to be invisible, just enough to be another face in the crowd. They would share a polite wave with a neighbour or two, have a few drinks in their garden just like any other young gentlemen would deem appropriate on a Saturday evening, they would even exchange some pleasantries with the milkman, while fetching the post in the morning. Harry doesn’t remember the last time he held Draco’s hand out in the open or the last time he kissed the sunlight off his shoulders. It was the price they agreed to pay for safety. For love. If he could go back in time, Harry would have agreed all over again, he would have gone underground and lived in the dark, his only light the one in Draco’s eyes when he looked at him.

Sometimes, Harry wondered if history would remember them.

History, however, had bigger things to worry about in the grand scheme of things. Wizards weren’t the only ones licking their wounds after the horrors of a war—the Muggle world was busy in that department as well. After the monstrosities their kind had endured not even ten years ago, new conflicts were looming over the world, new threats reared their ugly heads waiting for the right moment to strike. Wizardkind was stuck in its own disarray after Grindewald’s mayhem—no-one was safe to trust, nowhere was safe to hide.

Harry and Draco both knew they weren’t going back anytime soon. Not after what Draco’s family was accused of. Not after Harry had shown up at his lover’s house one night, with a suitcase and two sets of muggle documents arranged with the help of a few trusted friends.

They left their world to find a better place to be together. In hindsight, it was a journey from the frying pan into the fire.

  


* * *

  


_Fallout shelters, constructed on a massive scale during the Cold War, are usually enclosed subterranean spaces designed to provide a hiding place in case of a nuclear attack, often as a civil defence measure. Their purpose was to protect people from the fire and the blast wave as well as the radioactive fallout that followed. Oftentimes furnished with substantial amenities and equipped with food and water that could last for days or even months, fallout shelters served as a temporary hideout until the surface was safe enough for the survivors to reemerge._

  


* * *

  


The Vault people came about a year and a half after they had settled down. Draco wasn’t officially on the lease—it would have raised too many eyebrows, two bachelors owning a house together brought too much attention. If anyone asked, Draco was a friend and a housemate, living in the spare guest bedroom that they never actually set their foot in. Their bedroom was upstairs, a private, intimate space where all secrets were left by the door, where they could unabashedly be themselves, where no prying eyes stripped them of what they had. Initially, it didn’t matter Harry was the only official resident—Muggle law didn’t really apply to them, not when they had their wands and Privacy and Memory Charms at hand, if anything were to go awry, if they had to adjust the reality a little bit to stop it from bursting their safe bubble.

One week in late spring, a man in a trench coat was going from door to door—he visited a few houses every day, clutching a notepad and a pen, questioning and interviewing their neighbours for several minutes each. After visiting about three houses, he would disappear just to come back the next day and keep knocking, keep talking to everyone. By Thursday, he was getting closer and closer to the end of the street, to Harry and Draco’s house. Draco stood by the window every day, watching the man’s every move with a concerned expression and fiddling with the loose thread on his shirt. Harry knew he was nervous, could see it in the taut arch of his shoulders, the redness blooming on his lower lip from worrying it between his teeth, the tense knit of his pale eyebrows. Every day, Harry came up behind Draco, wrapped his arms around his slender waist and propped his chin up at the crook of his neck. And every day, Draco would melt a little against him, letting a soft sigh and kissing his temple.

“Would it make you feel better if we eavesdropped a little?” Harry murmured into Draco’s neck, planting a soft kiss to his collarbone. It was Thursday afternoon and they both watched the man walk up the path to the Briars’ house next door. The glass of their window was tinted the palest blue, a sign the Protective Charms were in place. There were spells they could cast to hear what was going on without upsetting the wards and Harry cast a quick look at the coffee table where his wand was.

“No,” Draco said in a low tone, shaking his head. “It’s nothing. He’s probably selling something, or maybe it’s for charity.” He sounded like he wanted to believe it. “It’s nothing,” he repeated.

“We’re next,” he said quietly, holding Draco a little closer. “Do you want me to do the talking?”

“It’s your house,” Draco said with a hint of amusement, turning his head to brush his nose against Harry’s cheek. “I’m just a tenant here.”

Harry snorted a soft laugh. “Right, a tenant. A gorgeous,” he kissed the side of Draco’s neck, “mysterious,” another kiss, going up, sealing every word with a brush of lips, “brilliant tennant,” he purred, earning a pleased hum from Draco. “Whom I love,” Harry whispered and spun him around to finally capture his lips.

Draco responded immediately, winding his arms around Harry’s shoulders, burying his fingers in dark curls. They kissed, deep and slow, until a loud knock startled them apart. Draco froze in his arms and Harry planted one chaste kiss at the corner of his mouth.

“It’ll be fine. It’s nothing, remember?” Draco nodded, swiping his thumb over Harry’s lower lip. “Make us some tea? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Yeah, all right.”

The visit wasn't exactly _nothing_ , but it wasn’t something Harry was going to worry about either.

The man was a representative of a company collaborating with the government and, apparently, their upstanding little neighbourhood was chosen by The Powers That Be to participate in the Cold War Vault project. Each household was presented with the opportunity to secure as many places in a fallout shelter as there were people in the house. The company was building one nearby and the enthusiastic representative gushed about all the luxuries that awaited underground once it’s finished. The man talked a lot and at some point, Harry got a little lost in all the Muggle vocabulary he didn’t know the meaning of. It was annoying, too, how lightly he seemed to take the threat of a war, saying things like _you could be one of the first survivors if the bombs fall after all, Sir!_ or _It’s not a permanent solution, our super-sensitive radio-metres will alert the inhabitants when it’s safe to come out!_ Harry, however, only had one question: how many spots his household was assigned.

Draco was already staring at him with trepidation when Harry came into the kitchen, after politely slamming the door in the Vault Man’s face. The apparent drop in Harry’s mood turned the air a little heavy and questions were bound to be asked, questions Harry would rather not answer, knowing Draco all too well.

One spot.

There was one spot in the shelter in case of a Muggle war, assigned to their address. Of course, seeing as Draco was _a tenant_ , there would only be one spot. For Harry and no-one else. Feeling his stomach sink in momentary panic, Harry immediately asked if he could have more than one. The well-trained, apologetic smile he was treated with was answer enough, even without the legal drivel that came pouring out of the man’s mouth. He stammered on about _once in a lifetime opportunities,_ and _limited living space,_ and _only taking orders_ until Harry stopped him, asking if there was _anything_ that could be done.

In the end, Harry didn’t sign the form. And he told Draco just as much.

They had a fight that night—a nasty, unnecessary fight with Draco yelling at him to go after the man, to get that spot back just in case something bad happens. Harry screamed back, about Draco being insane, thinking Harry would go anywhere without him, no matter what happens, no matter how many wars erupt around them. He wasn’t going to run away—he was tired of running and hiding, and the thought of losing Draco, of being separated, made something dark and ugly fill his lungs and make his throat burn. Draco’s face was twisted with fear and anger and he looked at Harry as if _he_ was the insane one, as if leaving Draco was ever an option and rage roared throughout his body—rage at Draco, at the Vault Man, at the whole bloody world, Muggles and wizards alike. A world that couldn’t stop fighting for five fucking minutes. All strength left him and Harry turned to leave, to plop down on the sofa and wait until Draco calmed down, until he came to lie down with him and then they would never discuss it again.

Instead, Draco pushed him against the wall; his eyes were like thunderstorms, dark silver mingling into the black of his pupils, his hands fisted in Harry’s shirt and shaking with anger. It was a rare thing, to see Draco like that, especially after leaving the wizarding world—back then, Draco’s eyes were like a steel wall, cold, hard, and unyielding, always vigilant, waiting for the next blow to send him crashing to the ground. The further behind them those times were, the more Draco’s resolve seemed to soften—Harry’s heart threatened to burst with affection as he watched the love of his life slowly acclimatise to the relative safety of their new life. During the past year, Draco had stopped jumping at every sound of a car passing outside, he smiled more, even at strangers, he even hummed while making dinner again, the sweet sound had made Harry devour him against the table as soon as he had heard it for the first time in years.

And now that threatening, desperate look was back. The instinct to hide, to run or play dead peeking out from deep in his subconscious as Draco snarled at Harry, telling him he’s an idiot, telling him he has to save himself, to make sure he survives whatever fate throws at them next. If his eyes shone with unshed tears, Harry didn’t acknowledge it.

 _I won’t be saved if you’re not there,_ Harry thought, but didn’t say it. Instead, he cupped Draco’s face in his hand, brushing a thumb over his sharp cheekbone. “Love,” he whispered. “Nothing is going to happen. People are scared, they’re always scared of something, and it’s always been used to sell them things. Those few measly spots were given away so others could see it and start buying them out and then, _nothing will happen_. It’s just like with fancy cars or those Muggle pills and medicines that don’t do anything. People like to feel safe,” he said gently, gazing at Draco with all the conviction he could muster. “Besides, how many weapons can Muggles have? We can defend ourselves,” Harry added, not entirely convinced of that himself.

Draco slumped against him, defeated, and Harry immediately caught him into his arms, kissing the top of his head.

“One of the days, there will come something we can’t run from, Harry,” he whispered, and Harry kept kissing his hair and whispering nonsense into the moonlight strands.

They never spoke of it again. Not before they went to sleep, not in the small silences that caught them unaware when Draco was making tea or when Harry joined him on the sofa to snuggle into his side. The threat seemed real but it was safer not to talk about it, to stay in their bubble for just a little longer and hope it would one day go away.

The Muggles called it an atomic bomb. On the telly they said it annihilates everything right at the second it touches the ground. A blinding flash of white light and then it’s over, everything gone. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Like a million Avada Kedavras, a Fiendfyre swallowing everything for miles, leaving char and waste in its wake. The wizards didn’t know any spells like that—it sounded like pure death, carefully distilled and magnified to be capable of wiping out entire cities. Harry wondered what twisted minds could come up with such a terrifying weapon, what cruelty and animalistic fear could have driven them to devise something so horrendous, so powerful, that people all over the world lived in constant fear of that power being unleashed.

The Vault Man didn’t come again. Life went on as always and, slowly but surely, their minds stuffed that day into some dusty corner, just like human nature tended to do with bad things. Draco was a little distant for the next few days, took some long walks to stifle his conscience, to be alone with his thoughts for a while, or maybe just to welcome the warm days greeting them as summer slowly approached their neck of the woods. He usually came back a little calmer, with his hair ruffled by the wind and his skin smelling like honey and Harry kissed his pinkened cheeks and shoulders and soothed away the worried creases marring his forehead.

Just a little longer, he thought, and maybe everything would finally go back to normal.

  


* * *

  


_When a nuclear bomb is detonated, a white flash is visible even from tens of miles—the light is so bright, it can blind those who are close to ground zero. After the explosion, burning heat radiates outward, followed by an enormous fireball that forms within less than one-millionth of one second of the weapon's detonation. Its temperature reaches around a hundred million degrees—as hot as the centre of the sun. It ignites all buildings and vegetation in a several mile radius, effectively turning them into char. Casualties are close to one hundred percent within its reach. The fireball is followed by a blast wave of enormous pressure that reaches the speed of sound._

  


* * *

  


It was a Tuesday when it happened.

Lazy, late summer days spent with Draco were his favourite. Those were the days they didn’t go outside at all, with the usual Privacy Charms firmly in place and Cooling Charms blasting throughout the house. The air outside was heavy, sticky with heat, and the sun rays spilling into the living room bathed the space in a dreamlike golden glow, with specks of dust floating across the sharp light. Sometimes, they would cook or bake together and Harry fondly remembered the one time when instead of brownies, he ended up with a lapful of chocolate-covered Draco. He kissed and licked the warm sweetness off his lover’s damp skin, and they made love in the kitchen, and then in their bedroom, and they laughed and kissed so much, Harry felt his heart was about to burst. Sometimes, they would take a cool shower together and it always ended up longer and hotter than planned—those were the times they stayed in bed after, and took each other apart in slow, deliberate sessions, one fading into the next, like a blurred photograph film, until they both collapsed from exertion, wet, flushed, and completely worn-out.

Their summer days passed like a sepia-coloured slideshow, with snapshots of memories written into his heart, kissed into his skin, playing on loop like the sea that kisses its shore time and again. Draco was like the most beautiful mirage in the rippling sun, his skin almost gold, his hair smelling like patchouli, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

That soft, peaceful life with blurred edges and a gramophone crackling in the distance was everything they ever needed and sometimes, it felt like they weren’t hiding it at all.

It was a late afternoon and they were dozing off in bed, warm, naked, and dazed; Draco was splayed across Harry’s chest, his sure weight like a safety blanket, his long fingers loosely curled around Harry’s jaw. They’d just made love, possibly for the thousandth time since they first met, their skin dappled in sweat and vivid lovebites. Harry looked down at the beauty resting against his heart—Draco was staring at him through squinted eyes and pale eyelashes, with a soft smile stretching his pinkened lips. Harry’s own face must have mirrored that wondrously lovestruck look as he traced Draco’s cupid bow with the tip of his finger, brushing the soft curve and making Draco scrunch his nose with a laugh.

“You’re staring,” Draco said in a low voice and placed a reverent kiss on his sternum.

Harry hoisted him up to have those lips closer to his own. He kissed him, slow and deep, humming in contentment as he tasted their mingled essence on Draco’s tongue. “I could stare all day,” he said, earning himself a shy smile and another soft kiss on the tip of his nose. “God, you smell amazing,” he groaned, burying his nose behind Draco’s ear.

“Insatiable,” Draco murmured as he let his hand roam over Harry’s chest, going lower, and lower, until it slid under the sheets covering their hips, until Harry hissed into Draco’s ear and nibbled on his earlobe. Warm, smooth fingers finally found what they were looking for and Draco chuckled as he coaxed a few soft moans from Harry—he was always good with his hands, no matter if it was cooking, gardening, or turning Harry into a gasping, whimpering mess. “What am I supposed to do with you, Mr Potter?”

“I—ahh,” Harry gasped, arching into Draco’s touch. “I’m sure you’ve plenty of ideas,” he said, smiling mischievously.

“I just might,” Draco murmured and lightly bit his earlobe. He liked to tease Harry to the point of madness, until they were both desperate for each other, hungry and painfully hard. Harry would whisper tender things into the darkness around them and Draco would drink the words off his lips and take him apart as if he knew Harry’s body by heart. And, in all honesty, he did.

“But first,” Draco said, leaning away and chuckling as Harry followed his mouth with a whine. “Water. Food. We can’t have you collapsing, I’m not done with you yet,” he added with a smirk and got out of bed. Harry followed his lithe, naked body with a smile as Draco got dressed in a pair of soft trousers and a simple t-shirt.

“Care to join me?” He asked with a smirk.

“Yeah, in a second,” Harry replied, stretching his arms and legs. Draco chuckled and walked out of the room.

He finally got up as he heard Draco clamour in the kitchen and turn the telly on—they could use a little break, maybe after he would convince Draco to do it in the shower. His clothes were lying on the floor where Draco had discarded them earlier and Harry shrugged back into his white t-shirt and a pair of faded blue jeans.

“Harry? _Harry_!” Draco’s voice came from the living room. “Harry, come here, you have to see this!”

Something ugly and panicked churned in Harry’s stomach when he finally put a name to that strange note in Draco’s voice.

It was fear.

He ran to the living room where Draco was standing behind the sofa, looking at the TV. He was holding on to the backrest, digging his fingers into the worn fabric so hard his knuckles turned white. Harry ran up to him and cupped his face, looking for any signs of distress or injury but Draco wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were glued to the television.

The usual programme was interrupted by a pale-looking reporter—his face looked sick even on the fuzzy, black and white screen. He was sitting in front of a desk, holding some papers in shaking hands. His eyes nervously skimmed left and right, presumably reading from a prompter.

_Citizens, we have reports coming in— That’s correct, sounds of explosions… Explosions and blinding, white flashes…_

All blood left Draco’s face. A wave of crippling, overwhelming panic hit Harry with such a force, he thought he would throw up. Unable to make his stomach stop from jumping, Harry put his hand over Draco’s and stared at the screen, feeling the acrid taste of bile in his throat.

 _We’re still awaiting confirmation—_ The man put his hand up to his ear, apparently receiving some kind of message through a headset. _We have lost contact with some of our stations…_ The presenter’s hand was shaking so much, he placed it flat on the table and Harry heard Draco make a choked sound at the back of his throat. It can’t be. There’s no confirmation. It’s not happening, it’s not, they’ll say it was a false alarm, it’s something else, maybe there’s a fire, maybe—

 _Yes, coming in… Reports, coming in, confirmed reports, I repeat, confirmed reports of—_ His voice wavered; a barely-there, invisible twitch skitted across the presenter’s face, immediately schooled into journalistic objectivity. Even in the blurry image it was evident his jaw was clenched tight. He continued in a blank voice, devoid of all the emotions currently roaring in Harry’s caving chest. — _of nuclear detonations in London and Manchester. We’re receiving information about more airplanes entering Britain’s airspace, their affiliation is not yet confirmed—_ He let out a shaky breath. _Dear God in heavens… Dear God— Citizens, a state of emergency has just been declared, effective immediately. We urge everyone to make their way to the nearest possible shelter, if you were not assigned a shelter—_

The television went into static.

Harry tried to breathe, swallowing air like a madman, feeling it didn’t really reach his lungs as he clutched Draco’s hand so hard he almost broke the fragile bone. Panic. All he could feel was panic, slowly but surely closing in on him, making his legs weak and his heart race so fast, his head spun from lack of oxygen. Beside him, Draco was standing still, letting out one shallow breath after another.

They snapped out of it when a loud siren sounded outside, its low, terrifying wail echoing for miles and Draco let out a choked sob.

“Draco,” Harry breathed, forcing his voice into calmness, wishing away the audible tremble he couldn’t quite shake. This was no time to collapse. He needed to be strong—for Draco, for himself—it was Harry’s turn to be the rock. He put his hands on Draco’s shoulders, shaking him a little but Draco stood still, in a statuesque trance, shock and fear marring his handsome features. “Draco, please,” he choked out, “Draco. Hey, I’m here.”

Draco slowly turned his head and just stared, his eyes jumping across Harry’s features as if he was in a rush to commit them to memory and Harry maybe wanted to scream, to cry at him so he would stop, it wasn’t like there was no time left, they had all the time in the world just five minutes ago.

His hands dropped to his sides and Harry rushed to the window, opening the curtains. The siren kept wailing, the sound slowly going up, higher and higher, just to drop in pitch into a low, wrenching howl all over again. People were already running down the street—men and women wearing an array of hastily assembled clothes, bathrobes, coats, jackets, clutching their smallest children and dragging the older ones by their tiny, skinny arms. Some of the little ones were crying, as were their mothers, those kids old enough to sense the raising panic and turmoil they found themselves in; the smaller babies just looked around with large blue eyes, unaware of the doom that had fallen upon everything they were just starting to discover. A woman with a little girl in her arms stopped in front of their window; the child was maybe three years old, with pigtails and round, pink cheeks. She looked straight at Harry and he felt goosebumps crawl across his skin—children sometimes showed early signs of magic proficiency and the little girl waved at him with a rag doll she was clutching in her pudgy fist. He put a shaking hand on the glass and wished she lived to see Hogwarts when it was all over.

It suddenly hit him—it was over. Everything was over.

He heard another choked sound and whirled around to Draco who was breathing harder and faster with every second. Harry crossed the room in two swift strides and wrapped his lover up in his arms.

“Harry,” he whispered, the name coming as a broken breath and Harry felt his eyes prickle with hot tears.

“I’m here, love, I’m here,” he murmured frantically, holding on to Draco’s shirt and breathing in the smell of his hair—it didn’t bring him the usual comfort but it was grounding enough Harry could clear his mind to fully realise the hopelessness of their situation.

“Harry,” Draco said again, clearer this time. He looked at him with a shockingly sober gaze as he spoke, low and steady. “I need you to run.”

Harry opened his mouth, not quite processing what Draco just said. “You… what?” He croaked, all air punched out of his lungs.

“You need to _go_. To that vault. Go, Harry, maybe that spot is still waiting for you, go and beg them to let you in, go, please,” his voice was slowly raising, laced with panic and a desperate plea, his long, pale fingers digging into Harry’s forearm. “Don’t make me—”

“Draco,” Harry said firmly, trying very hard to sound calm. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Harry—” Draco’s voice broke and a single tear rolled down his cheek.

With that one drop, Harry’s whole world came crashing down. Like a house of cards left in an empty room, collapsed by a light breeze that came in through a cracked window. Almost like the butterfly effect, only there was no butterfly—just a furious tornado of fire and brimstone destroying everything it touched and two terrified men, helpless against fate falling down on their heads. Harry put his hands on Draco’s cheeks, looking at the love of his life for maybe the last time and white-hot, burning torment tore through his chest as he kissed Draco’s forehead.

They had nowhere else to go, in every sense of the word. No vaults, no shelters, no basements or secret passages they could hide in, not a Protego in the world was strong enough to shield them from that force, one that wipes out everything it meets. There was nowhere to Apparate, no way to predict a safe destination, no clue as to where they could go. The wizarding world was out of the question as well—those bridges were burned a long time ago, when Harry snatched Draco out of its tightening, post-war grip, never to be seen again.

The only shred of hope Harry could muster was that it could still miss them somehow. That they were out of range, a speck of dust in the grand scheme of things, not important enough to be bothered with. The siren kept wailing, people kept running back and forth, some crying, some tense and determined to save their loved ones, packing their families and what possessions they managed to grab into their cars and driving away.

Harry didn’t remember how it once felt to be able to save someone. He was completely and utterly powerless and he wanted to scream.

A woman who lived four houses over, if Harry recalled correctly, collapsed onto her knees in front of their driveway and let out a piercing shriek—it was heart-wrenching to watch her, hopeless and defeated, sitting on the curb and crying her heart out, unable to even breathe, let alone stand up and get to safety in time. Draco sobbed at the sound and Harry held him closer with one arm. He waved his free hand and the curtains closed. Another sharp wave and a Muffling Charm fell over the room, successfully cutting off most of the sounds coming from outside.

Draco buried his face in Harry’s shirt but tried to push him away at the same time, shaking uncontrollably and slowly letting his tears fall. The echo of the siren still rang in Harry’s ears as he looked down at Draco, wanting nothing more than to make everything go away.

“Love, look at me,” he whispered croakily. “Hey, Draco, love, please. Please,” he begged, feeling his voice was about to break.

Despairing grey eyes looked up at him and Harry bit the insides of his cheeks not to burst out crying, to stand unwavering and still—it was his fault, after all, bringing Draco here, dragging them both into this life. And now, this life was about to—

“Harry. There’s still time,” Draco whimpered, “you can go, save yourself, _please_ —”

“Shh,” Harry placed his thumb over that beloved lower lip, one he would have never tired of kissing, not in a thousand years, not in a thousand lifetimes. He waved his hand again and their old, dusty gramophone came to life—the last record they had listened to flew onto the turntable and the arm turned, placing the needle just in the right place. The slow, dulcet notes of piano and trumpet sounded in the sunlit space as Draco’s favourite record played with a soft, static crackle. It was Frankie Carle’s _One More Tomorrow_ and what a terribly apt choice, to hear the singer beg in a sweet voice for the one thing Harry wanted the most at that moment.

He blinked his eyes to stop the sting before it turned his vision blurry. He couldn’t fall apart now.

“Dance with me,” Harry whispered, sliding his hand into Draco’s.

Draco just stared and he looked so small in the middle of the living room, barefoot and helpless, and Harry thought he might go insane. He wrapped his other arm around that slender waist, not to lose any of his warmth, to make it count, as he clasped Draco tightly into the cradle of his body. His shoulders hunched over protectively, his head bowed, Harry touched the shell of Draco’s ear with his lips until Draco’s arm instinctively wrapped around him.

Slowly, deliberately, Harry rocked their hips to the music.

They barely moved, not even lifting their feet, just swayed in place holding each other with more force that either was willing to admit. The sounds from outside were tuned out completely, and none of them dared to speak. His eyes squeezed shut, Harry desperately tried to freeze the moment in his head in naive hope he could somehow stop all the clocks and stay suspended in this sweet vacuity where everything was _Draco_ , where Draco’s breathing was relaxed as he melted into their embrace and Harry was able to keep him safe. He focused on the smooth tones coming from the gramophone, on the way Draco smelled and the way Draco’s nose dug into his neck. Harry took deep, steadying breaths and, inexplicably, didn’t think about all the things they could have done if they had more time. He thought about fifteen minutes ago, two days ago, a month ago. Draco kissing him. Draco making love to him. Draco smiling at him as he scooted over on the sofa. He thought about all the time they had together and another wave of helpless panic hit him as he couldn’t remember the last thing Draco cooked for dinner or the colour of the mugs they had their last tea in.

The song kept playing and the world was still intact and it was somehow worse, to wait in that surreal line, maybe this plane, maybe the next one, maybe that’s the one that would put an end to it. He kissed Draco hard enough to bruise and Draco kissed back, kissed his eyelids and the apples of his cheeks and if they tasted salty, none of them said anything.

It was a cosmic joke, to run away their whole lives straight into death’s arms.

Draco was kissing the hollow of his collarbone when the flash came.

They both started, hiding their eyes in the crook of the other’s neck as a blinding light illuminated the room, casting long, sinister shadows across the floor and over the walls, and for a moment, Draco’s hair looked almost angelic—strikingly white and bright as he hid his face in the cradle of Harry’s shoulders. Harry could swear he heard a whimper but Draco didn’t falter, brought his hands up and pressed their foreheads together, tangling his long fingers in Harry’s hair so hard it hurt, and Harry didn’t dare make a sound, trying to focus on that sensation and compress it in his mind so it was the only thing he could feel. Draco abruptly moved away and walked to a small cupboard in the corner of the room to open one of the drawers for some reason, and Harry wildly tried to register the way his arched feet dipped into the thick, green carpet. He followed Draco’s every move and fought against the _last_ echoing in his mind as dull anticipation curled its fist around his racing heart, until something cold slid around his numb finger.

A low rumble came from outside as the song played, singing about wandering through paradise.

Harry looked down as Draco brushed his thumb over the smooth, gold band he put on his finger.

“I was waiting for the right time,” he said quietly and tried to smile, a wet, wobbly curve of lips. “It’s my chance.” Harry closed his eyes at yet another _last_ he didn’t want to hear, lingering at the edges of his strength, and wondered if Draco was the strong one all along, if that song was coming from Harry’s bleeding soul.

The room was bathed in a dim, coral glow as the sky turned orange—it was nothing like a sunset, more an infernal chasm slowly advancing on their fragile, crystalline bubble. Time was rapidly slipping away, the last grains in an hourglass that didn’t have enough sand to begin with. Harry kissed Draco again as the song slowly came to an end, and he thought how beautiful Draco was, how put-together he seemed while Harry’s whole body was falling apart at the seams. Being helpless was not something he was particularly good at, Harry thought, as he crushed Draco against his chest, the gold ring ice-cold around his finger.

When they broke apart, Draco’s eyes flashed red right before he closed them and Harry knew he wasn’t supposed to see it.

“Do you think it’s going to hurt?” Draco asked, his voice betraying him.

“No,” Harry murmured, tucking a strand of moonlight hair behind his ear, a hot tear smearing on his knuckle. “It’ll be as fast as a blink, and—” he choked, his throat closing up in pain. “And I—”

“Shh,” Draco cooed, kissing his palm. “I’ll see you then,” he whispered. Harry’s hand dropped limply to his side.

  


_One more tomorrow_

_Filled with love the whole day through_

_And then tomorrow I'll beg_

_For one more tomorrow with you._

  


The sky burned like a thousand suns as it fell down on them.

  


* * *

  


_The initial radiation, despite coming in lethal doses, rarely kills the people close to ground zero—those casualties are usually caused by the thermal pulse and the blast wave. The residual radiation, however, comes from the radioactive fallout that forms from the weapon debris and nuclear fission products. They can be a hazard due to their long half-life, emitting beta particles and gamma radiation for months or even years. The fallout particles vary in size and can travel high into the atmosphere, disperse, and poison everything in their vicinity, falling for days and months on end._

  


* * *

  


And then, just like that, he was falling.

And falling.

And falling.

And then, nothing burned anymore.

  


* * *

  


_Radiation sickness is an umbrella term for the health effects occurring in living organisms after being exposed to high amounts of ionizing radiation over a short period of time. Symptoms of radiation poisoning start to show after around an hour following the exposure and can last for days or months. At first, they include nausea, vomiting, and loss of appetite, and later, due to the radiation’s effect on rapidly-dividing cells, may cause irreversible DNA destruction, cancer, white blood cell loss, and, in case of high doses, death._

  


* * *

  


The first feeling his body registered was _cold_.

Harry wondered if being dead would always feel cold, and dark, and so scary he couldn’t breathe, but he supposed if Draco wasn’t going to be there with him, it didn’t matter either way.

 _Draco_.

The gaping hole in his heart throbbed at the beloved name and Harry whimpered softly as dull, crippling pain washed over his whole body, centring itself at the back of his head.

It didn’t take long for him to sit up and realise he can’t be dead if the pain feels real.

There was a wall to his right—coarse, wet concrete scratching his arm and he found the strength to crawl alongside it in pitch-black darkness. It felt like ages until a red light illuminated the dark space and Harry understood what happened.

Concrete corridor. Metal cage lights. A huge number painted on the wall every twenty feet. Realisation slowly crept in as the images of a man in a trench coat flashed before his eyes. The man flapping some brochures in front of his face. _High-standard facilities. Latest technologies. Comfort and security._

His heart hammered in increasing panic as the light flickered with an electric buzz, illuminating the cobwebs hanging on its metal casing and bathing the sordid space in a bloody glow. The ring on his finger seemed to pull him under and— _the ring_.

The ring Draco gave him right before the fire hit their house. He looked down at the inconspicuous gold band and felt nausea roll in his stomach. Harry thought about Draco’s long walks after the argument they had. His quiet demeanour in the days that followed. He wondered what it took for Draco to arrange such a specific Portkey.

Harry remembered what Draco said to him seconds before the shock wave hit. _I was waiting for the right time. It’s my chance._

Oh, Draco.

It couldn’t be true. Harry curled himself into a ball against the damp wall and turned his head to stare at the red light reflecting off the hastily painted vault number.

Sick, nauseating shivers took over all of his nerves as Harry rocked back and forth, twisting his fingers into his hair.

He never knew salvation would taste so bitter.

  


**Author's Note:**

> For the science freaks (like myself): if you look closely and think hard, you’ll notice that it took the blast wave _a while_ to get to the house. I made the necessary calculations and a bomb with a 50Mt yield would have a heavy blast damage radius of approximately 8 kilometres ([source](https://nuclearsecrecy.com/nukemap/)). Assuming the blast wave travels with the speed of sound (approximately—sources differ), we would have around 30 seconds between the flash and the blast hitting us (in the aforementioned radius)—just for this story, I assumed a much lower (around two times, to be exact) blast wave speed. I am aware of it and I admit it freely. Let’s call it science fiction.
> 
> (PS. The quote is _"War. War never changes."_ )
> 
> The scene from the game I heavily relied on can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZUoAm0GFJLk&). I used two songs, [Way Back Home](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GKGvjZK6jI8) by Bing Crosby (1949) and [One More Tomorrow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=52-nTVaG2gA) by Frankie Carle (1946).
> 
> ([x](https://fallout.fandom.com/wiki/Vault_77))
> 
> \--
> 
> Remember to leave some love for the creator if you can! Come reblog this work and view others from this fest [HERE](https://hd-hurtfest.tumblr.com/) on the H/D Hurt!Fest tumblr page!


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